


Easy As Tart

by CheapLemonIceLolly



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Baking, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, domestic incompetence, flirting via shitty christmas presents, these boys are all idiots honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 16:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13127679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/pseuds/CheapLemonIceLolly
Summary: Mitch isn’t a gourmet or anything, actually his cooking is mediocre at best, but he can bake a passable chocolate cake out of a fucking box, it’s not hard.  Following a recipe is just following instructions, right, like doing a drill properly in practice.“Right,” he says decisively. “You’re going home for Christmas right?  Tell your mom you’re bringing dessert.”Mitch takes it upon himself to teach Connor how to cook, and Dylan tags along to watch the trainwreck.





	Easy As Tart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disarm_d](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disarm_d/gifts).



> Happy holidays, disarm_d! You gave me so many good ideas, but I couldn't go past dumb boys being domestic together, and I couldn't resist sneaking some Feelings in there. Your fic for this ship is basically a masterclass in writing them, so I hope I did them justice!
> 
> PS: Davo mercifully shaved off that horrendous beard since I started writing this, but dragging hockey players for their terrible facial hair is my favourite thing, so I left it in :D

Officially, he and Dylan are supposed to be teaching Connor how to cook. Or maybe he’s supposed to be teaching them both how to cook, or he’s teaching Connor how to cook and Dylan’s just tagged along for the ride, it’s not very clear any more, but the basic idea is that there’s supposed to be a cooking lesson happening. That was the plan. 

They haven’t actually made it into the kitchen yet.

Oh, like, don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like _that_. At least...Mitch doesn’t think it’s like that? It’s a little confusing to be honest. Not that he’s _against_ that, you understand. Mitch would be one-hundred-and-ten-percent down for any _that_ with Connor or Dylan or both at literally any time, whatever _that_ might entail, even though the word “that” is starting to lose all meaning in his head right now. That. That-that-that.

Wait, where were we?

Oh, right. Like, sex, obviously. Threesomes, specifically, and in the very specific, threesomes with two of his best friends who he has never discussed any kind of gay sex with but who, nevertheless, are currently lying very close together on Mitch’s bed making, well, bedroom eyes at each other.

You can see why he’s confused, right?

Mitch sits on the floor at the end of the bed and wonders if not saying anything is weird, or if it would be weirder to interrupt, or if there’s something hilarious he could say to defuse the tension or if maybe he doesn’t really want to defuse the tension at all. It might be more fun to see what happens next. He might be interpreting this whole thing completely wrong, too, just projecting years of his own wildly inappropriate, inadequately suppressed horniness onto two completely straight dudes who are just sharing a very intense bro moment. Like, keep it in your pants, Mitchell.

Okay, so it’s confusing. But, just to backtrack for a second. 

Mitch knows they make Connor do those puck personality videos because he’s, like, ultra famous or whatever, but most of the time he privately thinks they’re making a mistake. It’s not that he doesn’t _have_ a personality - although that’s exactly what Mitch tells him whenever one of those stupid videos comes out, because merciless mocking is how he shows love - it’s just that he needs other people to set it off, relax him enough to be a person instead of a PR robot. You can’t relax in a TV studio with someone firing weird joke questions at you. Well, not if you’re Connor, anyway. Jokes from strangers seem to make him nervous, like he won’t be able to tell if they’re making fun of him or not.

Mitch makes sure it’s always obvious when he’s making fun of him. Which is honestly most of the time, but in a loving way.

Anyway, once he’s seen the cooking video and finished laughing hysterically (and then watched it and laughed hysterically a few more times just to get it out of his system), he has to call Connor and say something. He _can’t_ not.

“Are you honestly saying you can’t cook anything?” he demands incredulously. “Like, at all? What do you eat?”

“I have a meal plan,” Connor says. Mitch can hear the puzzled frown in his voice over the phone.

“No, I mean, I know that. But how do the meals happen?”

“I just told you, I have a meal plan.”

“You...but...okay, buddy, work with me here,” Mitch says patiently. “We’ve all got meal plans. A meal plan’s just a bunch of words _about_ food. How do you make it into actual food.”

“I don’t understand the question,” Connor says blankly.

Mitch isn’t a gourmet or anything, actually his cooking is mediocre at best, and he eats out most of the time now his mom’s gone home and he’s got to be a functional adult, or at least do his best impression of one. But, you know, he can boil pasta if he has to. He can bake a passable chocolate cake out of a fucking box, it’s not hard. Following a recipe is just following instructions, right, like doing a drill properly in practice.

“Right,” he says decisively. “You’re going home for Christmas right? Tell your mom you’re bringing dessert.”

“Dessert,” Connor very nearly whines. “Why _dessert?_ That sounds hard.”

“Desserts are so fucking easy, dude,” Mitch tells him. “Like, you know how they say something’s a piece of cake?”

“I thought that was about _eating_ cake,” Connor says. “I can eat cake just fine, I don’t see why I need to make it.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Davo,” Mitch says impatiently. He doesn’t know why he cares so much, but sometimes an idea just sort of comes over him in a wave and it’s hard to stop once he’s got started. “And anyway, girls love it when you cook them things.”

It’s not...he’s not _fishing_ , okay. That’s a perfectly legitimate thing to say, and it’s _true_ , girls are always weirdly impressed when you can do basic stuff like baking them a cake on their birthday or whatever. It’s not like he’s going to tack on “unless you’re not into girls, eh???” at the end like a massive dork.

He’s not _not_ fishing though.

“My mom and my brother’s girlfriend will be blown away, I’m sure,” Connor says dryly, which is not an answer either way, so. 

God, Mitch really needs to get laid and stop being so weird about his friends.

Anyway, he convinces Connor to come on Christmas Eve, through a combo of bullying, begging and promising he’ll get to eat some of the cake afterwards - “you know you could just ask me to come over, right? I do actually like you, Marns,” Connor says - and then somehow Dylan invites himself along too.

 _r u kidding i’ve got to see this_ , he texts Mitch when he hears about the plan from Connor. _your like martha stewart_ _i haven’t laughed this much since i saw that fckign video omfg_

 _you’re_ , Mitch replies. _and nice local reference america has changed u_

Dylan sends back a string of US flags and cactuses, and Mitch gets enough of this bullshit from Matts so he doesn’t dignify it with a response. He does notice the lack of wolf emojis, though, that Dylan used to use as a stand in for coyotes. Mitch doesn’t know if it’s because there’s not really a good substitute emoji for a roadrunner (like, the chicken, maybe?) or if Dylan’s just trying not to think about being passed back and forth like a hot potato. 

He decides not to mention it.

*

At first Mitch is excited, right? He’s managed to catch a little social time with Connor when they’ve played each other, not that they do all that often because of the east-west thing, and they’ve caught up in the summer a couple of times, but it’s usually with other guys or it’s in public, and anyway, it’s not the same as the three of them together again. He’s really looking forward to it.

And then a couple of weeks pass and Christmas Eve is right around the corner and he starts...thinking. Overthinking might be more accurate. Just the three of them. In his house. 

Yikes.

Mitch has known he was bi in an abstract kind of way since before the draft, but all that pre-draft press stuff, like typically intense no-personal-space hockey shit but dialed up to eleven, really kind of solidified a few things. One is that just about everyone has the potential to be hot. Not that he’s indiscriminate, exactly, but sometimes even he’s surprised by what makes his sex drive sit up and pay attention. Like, really buddy? Well, okay then. The other discovery was that he finds two things hotter than anything else: people being really good at shit, and people paying lots of attention to him.

That probably makes him seem shallow and vain, whatever. The point is, it made him see his two good friends, who are very good at hockey and also enable his attention seeking like it’s their fucking job, in a completely new light.

He made a total fool of himself on the top prospects tour, because he was just kind of perpetually high on excitement and so, so much unceasing attention, and Matts loves sending him clips from that fucking Everglades video even now just to remind him how dumb he looked falling all over himself to get Connor to laugh at his jokes. But it was a good time. And neither Connor nor Dylan has, like, dropped him yet, or told him he’s an annoying pain in the ass, or anything else that might put a dampener on his dumb crush on them (or...crushes? Does it count as two crushes when his dream crush fulfilment scenario involves both of them at once?) which is great and is also a disaster because they are both coming to his house. Like, today.

Right now, in fact, because they’ve arrived from the airport and he’s buzzing them up and they’re right here, at his actual front door. Okay. The nervous excitement is so intense he’s practically vibrating, so he takes a deep breath and makes himself count to ten before he opens the door, with a totally calm and non-weird smile, and invites them in like a completely normal person.

God. They both look. Really good.

“Found the place okay?”

“Nah,” Dylan says, shrugging off his coat. His hair’s too long and curling behind his ears, which is exactly how Mitch likes it best. “We’re still circling downtown looking for your building.”

Connor, pink-cheeked and smiling, gives Mitch a hug and says, “Ignore him. Someone’s grumpy ‘cause the Timmies at the airport was closed.” He’s still committed to that fucking beard, and honestly it’s like, objectively awful, like someone’s haphazardly glued offcuts from his last haircut to his face and focused most of their attention on his neck for some reason, but Mitch is so fucking gone on him he kind of loves it anyway.

“I mean, seriously, who closes at the _airport_ the day before Christmas?” Dylan scowls. “It’s fucking criminal. Holiday travelling is the worst, I _needed_ that coffee. I’m so over Starbucks.”

“I like Starbucks,” Mitch shrugs, to cover up the fact that he’s concentrating very hard on _not_ spontaneously running his fingers through Dylan’s hair. “They’ve got this peppermint white chocolate mocha thing for Christmas, it’s amazing.”

“God, that sounds disgusting,” Dylan says. “I want one.”

He finally cracks a smile and wraps Mitch in a hug, and Dylan always seems like he’s mostly arms so he gives really good hugs. Mitch leans right into it. Maybe a little too much, but he gets away with it because everyone’s used to him being kind of clingy, and they all kind of are, at least with each other, so it’s fine.

“Ugh, I missed you guys,” Mitch says into Dylan’s shoulder. He might have to revise that earlier thought; Dylan’s mostly arms _and_ shoulders, now, and it just makes the hug even better. God bless pro training regimens.

“Lame,” says Dylan, and kisses him on the side of the head, which more or less means _I missed you too_. “We just gonna hang out in the doorway or are you going to show us your place?”

This is both the best and worst thing about Dylan, or really about both of them, Mitch thinks as Connor throws an arm over his shoulders and they all move into the living room. Like, Mitch touches everyone, that’s just how he is and people get used to it, but nobody touches back quite like these two, with that worn-in comfy feeling of knowing each other for ages. It’s just easy.

The reason it’s the worst is it’s maybe too easy. Or Mitch is too easy. All he knows is his temple is tingling where Dylan kissed him and he’s so aware of the warmth of Connor’s arm against the back of his neck, and probably nobody else involved is remotely as into any of it as he is. It’s just bros. Just buddies. Doesn’t mean anything.

Oh well. He loops his arm around Connor’s waist anyway and sets up an enthusiastic chatter about his sick city views and how close he is to the rink here.

It’s not a super interesting place apart from that, just a basic two bedroom condo, so the tour doesn’t take that long. He doesn’t actually mean to have it end in his bedroom, but somehow it happens anyway, and he’s still holding on to Connor and talking non-stop when he drops onto the end of the bed with too much force to be, like, even remotely chill. Connor falls half on top of him and it makes the mattress bounce.

Connor squawks, then giggles and rolls away just in time to avoid being squashed by Dylan who dives into the far-too-small gap in between them and nearly elbows Mitch in the throat. And obviously that requires retaliation, so then there’s a lot of yelling and wrestling and Mitch falls entirely off the bed and onto the floor, and the weirdness of basically dragging his buddy into bed with him is forgotten, which is good. Mitch doesn’t know why he’s being so awkward, it sucks. He never gets this, it’s dumb to waste it being all weird about it.

He kicks Dylan in the ankle, because he’s the only one he can reach. There’s no way he can have got any taller, but his jeans are too short and there’s a strip of skin between his pants and his sock that Mitch targets. Okay, so it’s maybe more like poking with his toes than actual kicking. Not, you know, stroking his ankle though. Not _really_.

“Enough fucking around,” he says. “We have baking to do.”

“Aw, but I’m comfy,” Dylan says. Mitch can’t see anything above their knees, hanging off the end of the bed. He rubs his foot against Dylan’s exposed ankle again, trying to be annoying, but it doesn’t get a response.

“Come on, it’ll be fun.” Mostly Mitch just wants to get out of the bedroom before he just caves in and initiates a cuddle pile for the rest of the day. It’s not like a cuddle pile would be new, but...he doesn’t know. Everything feels charged or something, like maybe he got gayer since they used to see each other all the time, or maybe he just forgot what having literally zero boundaries felt like. He tries harder to keep a little bit of distance between himself and the Leafs guys. Only a tiny bit, but...it makes a difference.

Connor snorts. “I’m pretty sure baking has never been _fun_.”

“No, hey, that’s not true,” Dylan says, and Mitch hears the soft thwap of him slapping Connor’s chest with the back of his hand. “Remember that one time?” He pauses in a significant sort of way. “With the pancakes?”

Connor doesn’t say anything for a second, and then Mitch sees his toes curl in the carpet. “Oh,” he says. “The _pancakes._ ”

“You’ve got to admit that was fun,” says Dylan, and gives him a little nudge with his knee. “Otherwise I’m gonna be offended.” Connor laughs.

“No, okay, that was...yes. But the baking wasn’t really the fun part.”

Mitch blinks. Well _that_ sounds...he’s got to be imagining how, like, gay that sounds right??

He sits up, and they’re curled in towards each other on the bed like they don’t even realise they’re doing it, like they’ve forgotten Mitch is still in the room. He can’t decide if he wants them to remember or if he wants them to keep forgetting and...do whatever it is they’d be doing right now if he wasn’t there. On his bed, with Dylan’s hand still half curled on Connor’s chest and their noses nearly touching. 

What was the fun part? He sort of wants to ask but he’s also kind of enjoying the dumb porno fantasy that his brain is supplying. He’s got this picture in his head of Dylan licking syrup and butter drips off Connor’s long fingers and it’s…

It’s almost certainly crossing some sort of line. And if it isn’t, his super inappropriate semi definitely is, Christ.

“Well my baking lesson is definitely going to be the most fun you’ve ever had in the kitchen,” he says loudly, mostly to distract himself, and immediately regrets the fact that he was ever born when Connor gives him a startled look. Dylan grins and sits up.

“I’ll bet,” he says, in a voice that’s definitely not meant to sound flirty, Mitch tells himself firmly to head off any more ill-advised boner action. The fact that he’s in the ideal position to blow both of them is neither here nor there.

Moving into the kitchen helps, a little bit. For one thing, kneeling on tiles is the worst, so that temptation’s gone (more or less). And for another thing, he already set out all the stuff for the baking lesson so there’s a proper distraction from the gentle weight of Connor’s hand on his hip all the way down the hall, or the way Dylan drapes himself over Mitch’s back and looks over his shoulder while he brings up the recipe they’re going to make on his phone.

Again, more or less. 

He shrugs Dylan off, and feels a little bad about it, but if Dylan thinks he’s being weird it’s not at all obvious.

“So, what’re we making?” he says cheerfully, hoisting himself onto the counter. He tugs Connor backwards into a hug like he can’t go ten seconds without touching someone, holding him in place between his knees and propping his chin on his shoulder.

“Uh,” Mitch squints at his phone. Maybe he should have, like, done a printout of the recipe or something. This blog post has a lot of waffling and the font is really tiny. “Tarte au citron,” he reads carefully, probably butchering the french, but it’s not like anyone’s gonna know. When the other two just stare at him blankly he rolls his eyes and says, “It’s just a lemon tart.”

Connor says, “Definitely _not_ on anyone’s meal plan,” because he’s a dork. Dylan snorts in his ear.

“It’s for Christmas, dude,” he says. “You’re going to have a cheat day for _Christmas_.” Then he pulls a face at Mitch. “Why can’t you just call it lemon tart, you nerd.”

“It’s more _impressive_ if it’s got a fancy name, duh.” Mitch insists. “Half the point of this is to, like, wow Davo’s family with his amazing new cooking skills.” He puts on an exaggeratedly dumb, dull voice. “Oh hey guys, I made uhhhhh a pie.” He rolls his eyes. “So impressive, right?”

“That’s uncanny,” Dylan grins. “You sound just like him.”

Connor makes an indignant noise and squirms around in the circle of his arms and knees so he can jab him in the chest, or tickle him, or hug him more effectively, or possibly drag him off the counter and onto the floor, it’s kind of hard to tell. Mitch tells his stupid sex brain to chill the fuck out because his imagination is already going a little wild.

“Step one,” he says, very loudly, “is to weigh out butter and flour for the pastry.”

“Couldn’t you just buy pastry from a store?” Connor says with a pained look on his face.

“You’re really not getting this whole impressing people thing, are you.”

“I’ve never had to _try_ and impress people before,” Connor says innocently. “I don’t know how it works.”

Mitch snorts and Dylan drums his heels on the cabinets, presses his nose behind Connor’s ear and says delightedly, “I love it when you get all cocky.”

Mitch takes a steadying breath.

“Right, so, _pastry_ ,” he says sternly, mostly for his own benefit.

Mitch hasn’t actually made pastry from scratch before, and he doesn’t have a food processor or a...pastry cutter, whatever the fuck that is, but he figures it’s probably fine. He borrowed a loose-bottomed tart pan from his mom and everything, and he didn’t even laugh when he had to say “loose bottom”. That’s fucking adulthood right there.

He measures out the pastry ingredients into a bowl and starts mixing them together with his hands because he’s sure fingers are nature’s pastry cutters, or he would be if he knew what a pastry cutter was.

“That looks fun,” Dylan says, reaching around Connor, “let me try,” so Connor moves out of the way and Dylan hops down off the counter so he can wash his hands and then bury them in the pastry dough. He seems to be having more fun just running his fingers through the flour than doing any actual mixing, so Mitch hip checks him aside.

“No, you’ve got to blend the butter in, see?” he says, sticking his hands in the bowl over Dylan’s. “Like, you kind of rub it in with your fingers.”

“Bossy,” Dylan grins, bumping right back against his hip. There’s not really enough room in the bowl for both their hands, but Mitch doesn’t really want to move, all the same.

Once everything’s coming together they dump a bunch more flour on the counter and tip the dough onto it, squishing it into a ball. Well, Mitch and Dylan do, Connor just watches from close by with his head on one side.

“I thought this was supposed to be your cooking lesson?” Dylan says, with one floury hand hanging loosely over Mitch’s shoulder. Connor raises his eyebrows.

“You look like you’re having fun.”

Dylan pats Mitch on the cheek, sending up a little puff of flour that makes him want to sneeze. “Learning’s fun when you have a good teacher,” he says. 

Mitch makes a face, but secretly he’s pretty stoked with how well this whole baking thing is going. And the, like, cuddling, but whatever. The recipe says you’re supposed to put the dough in the fridge for an hour before you roll it out but that sounds tedious as fuck, so he slaps the rolling pin he borrowed from his mom into Dylan’s hand and says, “Great, now you get to learn about rolling.”

Dylan shimmies at him, brandishing the rolling pin. “They see me rollin’, they--”

“No,” says Mitch, but he has to fight not to smile, and he’s pretty sure he’s losing.

He hovers around Dylan’s shoulder while he rolls out the pastry, and the high of everything going well starts to fade, because pastry is, Mitch is quickly coming to realise, utter bullshit. The dough is extremely soft and it keeps sticking to the rolling pin, so he keeps having to reach over and sprinkle more flour everywhere. He’s covered in floury handprints and so is Dylan, because Dylan keeps getting annoyed and trying to push him out of the way so naturally Mitch has to push back, and the cosy leaning from a few minutes ago is turning into an irritable struggle for bench space.

“Have you actually done this before?” Connor asks, suddenly very close to Mitch’s other ear, the warm current of his breath travelling down Mitch’s neck like electricity. “This specific tart thing?”

“Well, no,” says Mitch. “But I’ve made, like, cookies and shit with my mom. How much harder can this be? They say “easy as pie” for a reason.”

“They don’t say “easy as tart” though,” Dylan mutters as he lifts the sagging piece of dough over the tart pan.

“Careful,” Mitch says sharply, “You’re going to tear it.”

“I’m not going to _tear_ it, stop nagging,” he snaps back. “Will you just...” 

“It says you’ve got to press it right into the corners.”

“I _know_ , I’m _doing_ it, will you get out of the way?”

“I’m _helping_.”

“You one hundred percent are not. Aw, fuck, look what you made me do.” The dough snags on the edge of the tart pan just as Dylan’s lowering the last of it into position and rips a huge hole in the side.

“Told you you were going to tear it.”

“I will stuff you into the actual oven.”

“No, look you guys,” Connor says, squeezing in between them. “It’s squishy, you can just…” he pinches the edges of the pastry together with his fingers, “stick it back together, see? It’s fine.”

“Oh,” says Dylan. “That’s easy. Why do you even have to roll it out if you can just press it in like that?” He gives Mitch an accusatory look over Connor’s bent head, as if he made up the pie crust instructions just to mess with them. Mitch waves the phone at him.

“Don’t look at me, that’s what it says in the recipe,” he says. “Next we have to...wait, that can’t be right.”

“What?”

“It says you fill it with uncooked rice? And bake it for twenty minutes? But we haven’t even made the filling yet.”

“No, no wait, I know this one,” Dylan says. “The rice is to hold it down while it cooks, you take it out before you put the filling in.” Connor and Mitch both stare at him, and he shrugs. “Latts likes Food Network. There wasn’t a lot to do in Tucson.” He pauses and then laughs, short and sharp. “Isn’t, I guess I should say.”

There’s a little moment. Possibly it’s the point to say something, like, commiserating or encouraging, but what actually happens is that Mitch tries not to glance at Connor or look pitying or react at all because he’s pretty sure all of the possible reactions will only make Dylan feel worse. 

Getting sent down is a fucking shitty Christmas present. Ignoring it seems like a terrible reaction too, but he doesn’t know what to do.

Connor doesn’t react either, just goes to the pantry cupboard and finds the giant glass jar Mitch’s mom got to put rice in (as if the bag from the supermarket isn’t perfectly fine) and once he comes back it feels like Dylan shakes the unhappy tension out of his shoulders and the moment passes. What a relief. Mitch does not feel equipped to deal with, like, emotions. They tip a bunch of rice into the pie dish until it’s completely full.

“Isn’t it going to stick?” Mitch says doubtfully.

“Beats me,” Dylan says, holding both hands up. “I’ve taught you all I can, bud.”

“I’m glad my education’s in such good hands,” says Connor, leaning against the fridge and stretching one long leg out. “How long did you say it has to cook for?”

“Twenty minutes now, but we make the filling while it’s in the oven.” Connor makes a beleaguered noise and tips his head back against the fridge door, and Mitch’s intended chirp gets lost on the way to his mouth, derailed by a sudden intense desire to bite at the raggedy looking scruff under Connor’s chin.

He coughs and looks around for his phone, ostensibly so he can check the recipe but mostly to give him something to do with his hands. It’s just behind Dylan on the counter, but he doesn’t get out of the way when Mitch goes to reach past him, just lounges against the bench with a little smirk on his face.

 _They know_ , Mitch thinks wildly. Dylan lifts his eyebrows just the tiniest bit, like a dare, and Mitch can’t back down on a _dare_ , so he leans right into him to reach his phone, chin hooked over his shoulder. Dylan’s warm and solid and he doesn’t move exactly but Mitch feels the tremor of a suppressed laugh go through his body.

They’re going to be the actual death of him.

Of course, he’s so flustered that once he’s double checked the timing for the pie crust and goes to pick it up to put it in the oven, he completely forgets about the loose bottom and puts his hand right through it, ruining the pastry and sending raw rice flying everywhere.

Dylan howls with laughter, because he’s a dick, and then Mitch explains the loose bottom thing and they all get the giggles, and once everyone’s stopped giggling Connor says it’s probably fine if they just roll the dough up again and squish it back into the pan, so they do that. Mitch was right and the rice is totally stuck to the dough, but he thinks they get most of it out. Then they tip more in and he very carefully carries the pan over to the oven and puts it in to cook, making sure not to touch the middle.

He looks at the rice all over the floor and thinks: it’ll be fine. That’s Future Mitch’s problem.

It turns out Future Mitch is really five-seconds-from-now Mitch, because he takes three steps across the kitchen to get the eggs out of the fridge, slips on a patch of rice and skids directly into Connor’s arms, nearly headbutting him in the face. Connor catches him with steadying hands on his waist.

“If you wanted to cuddle you should’ve just said so,” he says, teasing, and Mitch honestly doesn’t know any more where the line is between his imagination and reality, because honestly this really feels like just incessant flirting. Maybe it’s bro flirting. It’s doing his head in.

“Eggs,” he says incoherently, and tries to open the fridge door with Connor still between it and him, which mostly just presses them closer together, and he’s pretty sure the way he, like, hyena-laughs is kind of hysterical but there’s no helping it.

He rushes through the recipe for the filling because the kitchen is starting to feel close and overly warm and Mitch thinks he needs to sit down or something. Can you get lightheaded from being too turned on, or too embarrassed about being turned on? He tries to get Connor to do some of it, since he’s the one who’s supposed to be learning how to cook, here, but Connor delegates everything to Dylan anyway, and honestly it’s kind of the ignorant being led by the incompetent, so Mitch and Dylan get a lot more sugar and lemon juice on each other than they get in the bowl.

Anyway, somehow they manage to get everything together, and then Mitch carefully pours it into the still-warm pastry case (with most of the rice emptied out of it, although there are a few bits that just won’t unstick) and Dylan carefully carries it back to the oven and Connor carefully stays out of the way and, like, observes.

“Thank god,” he says dramatically once the oven door is closed, as if he’s just been through some outrageous ordeal. “Time for a break.”

In the living room, Mitch spreads out across as much of the couch as he possibly can so Dylan can’t sit down, putting his feet in Connor’s lap and stretching his arms over his head with an exaggeratedly contented sigh. Dylan just sits directly on him like he’s not even there.

“Oh no, hey, we forgot the present!” Connor says suddenly, hitting Dylan on the arm. “Quick, it’s in the front of my bag.”

“You’ve got too used to having assistants for everything,” Dylan tells him. “Why do I have to get it?” But he’s already getting up, which is honestly a relief because he’s heavier than Mitch remembers him being. He ambles out into the hall and comes back a few seconds later with a lumpy looking package wrapped inexpertly in Christmas paper.

“I didn’t know we were doing presents,” Mitch says, sitting up. “I didn’t get you guys anything.”

Dylan grins and tosses the present into his lap. “Don’t feel too guilty til you open it.”

He takes his time unpeeling the tape because even though he’s usually a paper-ripper the wait makes Dylan bounce impatiently on the balls of his feet and that’s too good not to savour. When he finally gets the paper open, there’s a stiff black fabric thing inside, all folded up. He lifts it up and shakes out the fabric to discover it’s a fucking apron, with “KISS THE COOK” printed across the chest in curly pink writing, and a gigantic lip print underneath.

“What the fuck.”

“It would’ve been funnier if we remembered to give it to you _before_ the cooking part,” Connor sighs.

“Don’t be such a downer,” Dylan says, perching on the arm of the couch right next to Mitch. “At least it’s before the kissing part.”

It takes Mitch a second to register what he’s said because he’s too busy staring at the apron, which he is literally never going to wear because this is probably the first time he’s cooked anything in, like, six months and it’s been fucking hellish. Then his brain catches up with his ears.

“What,” he says, and looks up into a kiss.

_What._

Dylan kisses almost exactly like Mitch would have expected him to, earnest and kind of sloppy but softly too, like he’s trying a bit too hard to be sexy. That probably shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but his mouth’s so soft and Mitch is so, so into it. He has this incredible urge to like, stick his fingers in Dylan’s mouth or something.

“ _Stromer_ ,” Connor says, all shocked. Which is fair, because Mitch’s internal monologue is pretty much all exclamation marks at the moment. Well, apart from the random filth.

“I got tired of waiting,” Dylan says indignantly. His hand’s still curled around Mitch’s jaw, fingers in his hair, and Mitch would really like to just...forget about talking for a moment and focus on that, and on the brief sweep of tongue across Dylan’s shiny wet lower lip, but then his brain catches up again.

“Waiting for what?”

Connor sighs and slides closer on his other side. “We _agreed_ ,” he says, giving Dylan a Look, “that we were going to let you, you know. Make the first move.”

“The first…” Mitch’s head is spinning. What. _What._ “What are you _talking_ about?”

“Isn’t that why we’re here?” Dylan says, making a face. “I mean, what did you invite us to your place for if it wasn’t a holiday booty call?”

Mitch gapes at him for a moment and then, speechless, gestures emphatically at the disaster area they’ve left in the kitchen. Like, what have they been doing for the entire morning? Why is he covered in fucking flour and lemon juice?

“You actually invited us over to teach Davo how to cook?” he says incredulously. “That’s--”

“That’s so cute,” Connor laughs, wrinkling his nose.

Mitch thinks about pointing out that he didn’t actually invite Dylan at all, but it’s not like he’s sorry he’s here. Fuck he really wants to kiss him again. He’s especially not sorry if Connor alone would have just patiently waited through an entire day of fumbling pie baking for some kind of move that was never coming, good fucking grief.

“But this is...is this okay?” Connor says, gesturing kind of vaguely between himself and Dylan.

“Is this...did you guys _plan_ this?” he splutters for some reason, instead of the more obvious answer which is _yes, yes, of course it’s okay, let’s fucking go._

“Marns,” says Dylan, “we’re fucking seducing you, try and keep up.” He lifts the apron out of Mitch’s hands and tugs it down over his head, then takes him by the shoulders and turns him so he’s facing Connor. “Your move, cap.”

Connor raises an eyebrow. “Did you just make me threesome captain?”

“Well I can take over if you’re not up to it,” says Dylan lazily, leaning forward until he’s got both arms draped over Mitch’s shoulders, “but you’re just so good at being in charge.” And look, don’t get him wrong, it’s really fucking nice, but they’re also looking at each other instead of at him and that does not seem right if he’s supposed to be the one getting seduced here. That’s not a threesome, it’s dating with an audience.

“This is the worst seduction ever,” Mitch says pointedly. “Is someone gonna kiss me or what?”

“Oh sure, _now_ you’re fucking keen,” Dylan says, low and close. “I’ve been patient for hours.” He rubs the tip of his nose around the edge of Mitch’s ear, and then bites playfully at his earlobe.

Mitch has never been patient a day in his life, and Dylan knows it, which is why when Mitch makes a move towards Connor, to take matters into his own hands, Dylan tightens his arms around him and pulls him back.

“Hey,” says Connor. “You had your turn.”

He leans in himself, his weight pressing Mitch back against Dylan’s chest, and kisses him. It’s not like kissing Dylan, really - Connor’s firmer, more decisive - but there’s enough similarities that Mitch feels safe assuming they kiss each other a lot. He doesn’t know how he missed that.

The reminder on his phone to take the tart out of the oven goes off five minutes later, but he’s too busy to pay any attention to it for a while.

*

“Is it supposed to look like that?” Connor says doubtfully.

Mitch stares down at the tart, black and bubbled around the edges and sunken and wet looking in the middle, and frowns. He’s pretty sure it _isn’t_ supposed to look like that, but he gets his phone out to check the recipe just in case. 

“Uh, no.”

“Hmm,” says Connor. “Maybe we cooked it too long? Or left something out?”

“Whoever came up with “easy as pie” as a saying was a dick,” Mitch says, poking at the pie tin and watching the totally unset centre slop around like thick, sticky lemon and egg soup. 

Dylan presses up close behind him, maybe to look at the “tart” over his shoulder, but mostly to slide his hand in under the stupid apron from the side and trace his fingers over Mitch’s stomach, feather light and low enough to make Mitch squirm.

“I know someone who’s easier than pie,” Dylan sing-songs, and he’s probably trying to be annoying but his breath is hot against Mitch’s ear and like. He’s not wrong.

“I’m pretty sure everything’s easier than pie,” Connor grumbles, hoisting himself up on the counter next to the tart. “What a mess. I’m all sticky, look.” He presses two lemon sugar coated fingers against Mitch’s bottom lip and Mitch thinks he could probably just lick the sticky sweetness off them, so he does. Slow.

“What’d I tell you?” says Dylan, all smug. “Fuck, that’s hot. Do me next.”

Mitch turns his head and kisses him instead, and Connor’s fingers trail down his throat, still wet from Mitch’s mouth, and snag on the neck of his tshirt.

“No, _that’s_ hot,” Connor says feelingly.

Mitch breaks away from Dylan’s mouth just long enough to say “Maybe it’s just me that’s hot, did you think of that?”

“It’s possible,” Connor agrees. “C’mere.” He tugs Mitch in close by the collar of his shirt, pressing his knees in against Mitch’s hips. Dylan follows, mouthing at the back of his neck while Connor kisses him, open mouthed and slow, and Dylan’s hard already and grinding against his ass with purpose. Mitch rolls his hips back experimentally and Dylan hisses, hand flexing against Mitch’s stomach, so he does it again.

“Hey,” Dylan says. “We should…”

“Bedroom?” Connor suggests. He barely even stops kissing Mitch to speak; Mitch can feel his lips moving.

“You’re the threesome captain,” Dylan says, and Connor doesn’t say anything, but his mouth twitches, a little flicker of tension that probably only Mitch notices.

“Okay,” he says. “Bedroom.”

It’s awkward stumbling from the kitchen down the hall to Mitch’s bed without letting go of each other, but they manage it somehow, shedding clothes as they go. Mitch has to pause halfway down the hallway to push Dylan against the wall, trying to kiss him and tug his shirt off over his head at the same time. He almost falls over getting his own skinny jeans off, which sets off a flood of borderline hysterical giggling (mostly his own). Holy shit, this is happening. It’s actually happening. Mitch tumbles onto the bed with his arms around Connor for the second time today, except now they’re both naked and Connor’s tongue is in his mouth, so that’s new. Holy _shit_ , is that new. This time when Dylan gets in between them Mitch can feel every inch of them pressing together, skin to skin.

Connor puts his hand on the back of Dylan’s neck and pushes him until he’s facedown on the bed. “I think,” he tells Mitch, calm as anything, “you should fuck him. What do you think?”

“Fantastic idea,” Dylan says. “I knew I made you threesome captain for a reason.” Connor ruffles his hair.

“I wasn’t asking you, I already know what you think.” He turns back to Mitch and says conversationally, “He hasn’t stopped talking about it for weeks.”

Mitch makes an involuntary hiccuping sound and tries to turn it into a cough. From the amused quirk of Connor’s mouth he’s pretty sure he failed.

“Really,” he says. He lies down so his face is close to Dylan’s. He looks flushed, and smiles at Mitch a little crooked, like he’s embarrassed.

“Wow, way to sell me out,” he says.

Mitch wonders what those conversations were like. If Dylan and Connor had a standing Skype date to talk about how Dylan was going to let Mitch fuck him at Christmas. If he ever touched himself while he thought about it. If maybe Connor talked him through it over the phone.

He doesn’t quite realise he’s saying all this out loud until Dylan breathes, “Fuck’s sake, Marns,” and Connor laughs.

“Pretty much,” he says. He reaches out and strokes his thumb over Mitch’s bare hip. “You got any lube in here or should I go get mine out of my bag?” 

Mitch’s breath catches because, okay, he’s not dumb, he gets that they’re into him now, but also knowing Connor was confident enough they were going to fuck that he brought _supplies_ is kind of a lot.

“Yeah, no I’ve...in the drawer,” he says, starting to sit up, but Connor pushes him back down.

“I got it.”

Dylan props himself up on one elbow and reaches for Mitch, so Mitch shuffles over on the bed until he’s sort of half under him and they go back to kissing. The angle’s kind of awkward, but Mitch can feel Dylan arch back into it when Connor gets his hands on him, swallow up the hitching moan he makes when Connor starts working him open, so the awkwardness is more than worth it.

“God, you sound like…” Mitch breathes a laugh, more exhilarated than actually amused. “If I knew you were this easy for it I would’ve said something earlier.”

“Fuck you,” Dylan groans into his neck.

“I don’t think that’s how this is going to work,” says Connor mildly.

He takes his time giving Dylan a second finger, even more time adding a third, adding a tonne of lube every time, and Mitch alternates between kissing Dylan and just lying back and watching his weird dumb facial expressions. He kind of wishes Connor would hurry up. His dick is aching for attention and the frantic breathy noises Dylan’s making aren’t helping, even though they have no business being that hot.

“Come _on_ Davo, please,” Dylan whines. “More, I want—“

“You wanna feel?” Connor asks Mitch, ignoring him. His voice is steady, but it’s rough already like he’s just barely holding it together, and they’re not even fucking Dylan for real yet. It makes Mitch feel lightheaded. It’s like, intense.

He can’t manage much more response than a nod, but he sits up and Dylan faceplants into the bed like Mitch was the only thing holding him up. Mitch watches his own hand run the length of Dylan’s spine until he reaches his ass and meets Connor’s fingers disappearing into him. He can’t see, but he can feel where Dylan’s stretched tight, feel Connor’s hand flex with every slow stroke, slick and slippery under Mitch’s fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Can I…?”

He hears Dylan’s breath hitch as he rubs his fingers over his rim, sliding in the, like, gallons of lube Connor’s got going on down there.

“Is that okay?” he says, and then, because the way Dylan’s breathing goes all ragged against the mattress kind of goes to his head a little, “Can you take more?”

“I can take it,” Dylan grates out. “Just...fuck, can you just…” His words disappear into a whine when Connor pours even more lube over Mitch’s fingers. It’s fucking _dripping_. Mitch doesn’t hesitate; he pushes one finger in next to Connor’s three, and the sensation is incredible, the slick slide of their hands against each other and Dylan just like, clenching and then relaxing around them, leaning minutely into the stretch with these tiny rocking motions. It’s all wet and tight and so hot Mitch feels, momentarily, like he might black out.

Instead he leans down and kisses Dylan’s shoulder.

“You feel fucking amazing,” he says, and it comes out more affectionate than, like, the dumb porno dialogue it probably should sound like. Dylan smiles helplessly into the mattress.

“Not too...” his breath snags in the middle, “...bad yourself.”

“Just wait,” Connor says, and does something with his fingers that draws this amazing high pitched whine out of Dylan.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, clawing at the sheets. “I’m good, I’m— you gotta— ”

“Shh,” Connor says, smoothing his free hand over Dylan’s back. “We got you, buddy. Marns, you ready?”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice. Mitch scrambles onto his knees, and fumbles for a condom while Connor wipes his slick fingers on the back of Dylan’s thigh and moves out of the way.

“Uh, rude,” Dylan says, glaring over his shoulder. But then he sees Mitch getting into position behind him and this full body shiver goes right through him, like a visible ripple through the muscles of his back. It’s a pretty fucking incredible ego boost, but it makes Mitch feel a little overwhelmed too, like this is suddenly a really big deal.

“Brace yourself,” he says, and pulls a face, sticking his tongue between his teeth just for the bark of laughter it gets out of Dylan. The tension shatters and Mitch grins as Dylan rolls his eyes and puts his head back down.

“You fucking loser,” he says into the pillows, with a grin in his voice.

Mitch can feel Connor move in close behind him, feel how hard he is against Mitch’s ass, and he has the sudden stroke of brilliance that being pinned in between them would be fucking incredible, Connor driving into him and him driving Dylan’s face into the bed. But Dylan’s legs are starting to shake already, he’s strung taut like a wire about to snap, and the time it would take for Connor to get Mitch prepped as well might actually kill him, so. Something for next time.

Connor puts his hand over Mitch’s on the base of his dick and helps him line up, which isn’t necessary but it’s fucking hot anyway. He’s very quiet through all of this, in contrast to the steady stream of cursing and begging that’s still pouring out of Dylan’s mouth, but the long slow exhale Connor breathes in his ear as they both watch Mitch sink into Dylan’s ass, careful and slow, speaks fucking volumes. 

Dylan’s all those ridiculous porno words in Mitch’s head - _hot_ and _tight_ and still so fucking _wet_ with all the lube they pushed into him - and he clenches his fists in the sheets and pushes back onto Mitch’s dick like he can’t wait, like he’s desperate for it, and Mitch doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on in his _life_. It feels like his head’s going to lift right off his shoulders.

He tries to start slow, but it’s pretty hopeless with Dylan swearing and arching under him and Connor breathing hard in his ear. He can feel the frantic jackrabbiting motion of Dylan’s hips as he strains for some kind of friction, but when he reaches for his own dick Connor leans around Mitch, calmly grabs him by the wrist and twists his arm up behind his back. Not hard enough to hurt, or anything, but firm. Dylan doesn’t even try to resist, but he makes a wounded sort of noise.

“Harsh,” Mitch pants.

“He’ll thank me for it later,” Connor says. “Won’t you, bud. You can jerk off any time.”

Dylan responds with a desperate whine that hums through Mitch like a full body vibration.

It’s not going to take long for Mitch to come, after all that. It’s kind of embarrassingly quick, actually, but when his thrusts start going all wild and erratic as he gets closer and closer, Connor lets go of Dylan’s wrist and reaches around, and the _sound_ Dylan makes when Connor gets a hand on him is unbelievable. Mitch forgets to be embarrassed about blowing his load immediately when it barely takes five strokes of Connor’s hand before Dylan’s coming too, face pressed into his outstretched forearms.

When Mitch pulls out, Dylan sort of collapses out from under him like he can’t even hold himself up any more. Connor laughs, breathless, and flops down next to him as if he’s just as wrung out, even though Mitch can see he’s still hard.

“Wow,” Mitch says, when his brain finally reconnects with his mouth. “We’re really good at that.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” Dylan says into the pillow, heavily muffled. Mitch slaps him bracingly on the ass.

“Sign of a job well done,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

He hurries awkwardly into the bathroom to dispose of the condom, because as much as he wants to just toss it on the floor and deal with it later he knows he’ll regret it. He catches sight of himself in the mirror, flushed halfway down his chest, his mouth all red and fucking beard rash all over the side of his neck from Connor rubbing his face all over him, and doesn’t bother fighting back his very dumb grin. This cooking lesson was a brilliant idea. He’s a goddamn genius.

When he gets back into the bedroom Connor and Dylan are all tangled up in each other, kissing while Connor rubs off against Dylan’s thigh. Not urgently, just lazy rocking, and it’s hot but it’s kind of sweet, too. Mitch has to stop in the doorway just to enjoy the view for a moment, a rush of fondness momentarily overtaking his still hungry sex brain.

Then Dylan presses his leg up a little harder and Connor moans into his mouth, and Mitch’s sex brain is back in the driver’s seat again. He climbs onto the bed on his knees and presses a messy, open-mouthed kiss against Connor’s hip.

“What do you want?” he says, low. It’s maybe more dumb porn dialogue but he feels like Connor should get exactly what he wants right now, since he’s basically orchestrated everything so far. Everything so far has been pretty fucking excellent. Mitch is, like, extremely grateful.

Connor makes a face, eyes closed, and threads his fingers in Mitch’s hair but doesn’t make and move to guide him. It feels more like he just wanted something to hold on to.

“Why do I have to decide everything?” he says, a little whiny. Mitch snorts.

“Duh. You’re threesome captain, remember?”

Connor opens his eyes and Mitch sees his mouth do that thing he only felt before, that little tense twitch, and suddenly the whiny voice doesn’t seem funny any more.

“Captain,” he repeats. “Right.” He lets out this weird little laugh, high and cut off, and Mitch and Dylan exchange a look.

“Hey,” Dylan says in a soft, soothing voice. “That was only meant to be a joke.” He buries his nose under Connor’s jaw and kisses his neck, sweet for a moment. “But if it’s not fun for you...”

Mitch doesn’t understand, exactly, but he trails a few more kisses over Connor’s thigh, trying to be, like, reassuring or something.

“It’s been a rough few months for all of us, yeah?” Dylan says, and Mitch thinks: oh.

It hasn’t been that rough for him, not really. Like, he hasn’t been scoring much and that fucking sucks, but everyone keeps telling him not to worry about it, to just keep playing his game and the shots’ll go in eventually. There’s not really any pressure, at least no more than usual. He’s frustrated, for sure, but it’s not like the team are struggling or anything. 

And, yeah, everyone knows what Dylan’s season has been like so far, but Davo...Mitch never really thought about it. He’s playing great, as amazing and hockey-jesus-y as ever. But then again, his team almost made it to the conference finals last season and now...well, now the Oilers kind of suck. And being on a team that keeps losing is hard enough without being the captain as well.

Mitch was a rookie six months ago. He can’t even imagine being an NHL captain. But Connor is. Which is fucking crazy pressure when you think about it. Mitch isn’t sure why he’s never thought about it, he just...Connor always seems so capable, you know? Like, he’s a mess who doesn’t even know how to cook, but not when it comes to hockey.

He looks up, and Connor’s got his eyes squeezed shut again, frowning. He probably grew that stupid beard to make himself look older, but right now it makes him look younger than ever, like a teenager pretending to be a grown up.

“It’s okay,” Dylan tells him, kissing his jaw. “Just let Marns take care of you, eh?”

Mitch does his best.

It’s different than before, slower and quieter; the only feedback he gets from Connor is his hands clenching and unclenching in Mitch’s hair, his little shallow, sobbing breaths, the soft murmur of Dylan’s voice saying things Mitch can’t quite make out. But it’s just as intense, maybe more so, because it feels like Connor needs this, needs to relinquish control and be just. Taken apart. And Mitch has no fucking idea how to help with any of the big, terrifying pressure there is on Connor, but he can do this part. He _wants_ to.

Connor barely makes a sound when he comes, but he shakes all over with it, arches up against Mitch’s mouth with thighs trembling. Dylan kisses him through it, and Mitch leans his forehead against Connor’s hip while he catches his breath after, trying to stay gentle and still and, like, calming. It’s not easy for him, but he thinks Connor probably deserves it.

It feels like they all lie there for a long time, just breathing together. It’s just starting to get awkward when Connor lets out a long, shaky breath and brushes Mitch’s hair back from his forehead.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice small but steady. “I...thanks.”

“Any time,” Mitch says. Then he sighs. “I’m just sorry your mom’s not going to get her Christmas tart.”

“Are you seriously worrying about my mom right now?” Connor says, bemused.

“Kinky,” says Dylan. Connor makes a disgusted noise and pinches him. “Ow, it was a joke!”

“You want me to bring up _your_ mom when you’ve just had your dick in Marns’ mouth?”

“ _Dude_.”

Mitch laughs and crawls further up the bed so can cup Connor’s face in both hands and kiss him. His shitty college student face pubes tickle Mitch’s nose, but he’s kind of into that somehow. He’s pretty sure he could be ready to go again in, like, ten minutes. At least he is until Dylan lets out this gigantic mood-ruining sigh against the side of his neck.

“What is it,” Connor says wearily.

“It’s just.” Dylan leans his forehead against the Mitch’s cheek. “He’s right, Kelly’s gonna be pissed if you show up without a dessert now. She’ll do that disappointed face. I hate that face.”

“You’re not even going to be there!”

“No, but I’ll know it’s happening and it’ll ruin Christmas.”

“You’ll…for fucks sake.” Connor drags a hand down the length of his face, scrunching his eyes shut. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”

Mitch really, really does not want to try and make the disaster tart again. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have enough ingredients left, and he’s definitely sure he doesn’t want to spend any more of the remainder of today with his clothes on than is absolutely strictly necessary.

“I mean, I think there’s a tube of cookie dough in the freezer,” he says. “We could have cookies in the oven in, like, five minutes probably.”

Connor raises an eyebrow at him. “What happened to my fancy cooking lesson?”

“Look,” Mitch says, “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but I’m pretty sure you’re just unteachable. You’ve got the cooking version of a black thumb or something. I just don’t think it’s worth the risk.”

Dylan snorts. “He’s got a point.”

Connor looks, briefly, like he’s actually offended, as if he’s so used to being good at things he doesn’t know how to cope with this kind of disparaging. Then he wrinkles his nose.

“Honestly, you’re kind of a crappy teacher anyway,” he says.

Mitch just grins.


End file.
